


Fell Right Into My Arms

by Fitzrove



Series: Death of a Bachelor [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Episode: s02e03 Sway, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, I mean, I mean it's referenced, I'd say this is set around series 3, Implied/Referenced Crossdressing, M/M, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Romance, Stockings, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 06:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18960094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/pseuds/Fitzrove
Summary: In s02e03: Sway, Morse buys a pair of expensive silk stockings to help solve a case. It’s never revealed what he did with them after said case was solved and over...This is a prequel of sorts to ‘Are You Married, Mr Morse?’, about Morse and Jakes’ deepening relationship.





	Fell Right Into My Arms

Peter got terribly bored each time Morse got assigned on light duty, for one reason or another.

Sure, it was a relief for the first day or so, when he was allowed to pick up Thursday and got to stay in his good graces, reap all the glory for a second, but it just wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like Thursday acted _dismissive_ towards him, it was just that they both knew there was an empty spot in the car, and neither particularly liked the absence.

Peter did see Morse every time he was at the station, even though a lot of his time was spent making inquiries. They had lunch together every so often, but it just wasn’t the same as having a _very_ easy excuse to spend the whole day together, in one place. And it definitely wasn’t the same as having a reason to drive somewhere together and stay a couple minutes longer than was entirely necessary just to hold hands and look up at the sky to see the birds returning home after winter.

(And smoke in the car, in Peter’s case. Even though Morse turned his nose up at the smell, he liked to look, and was growing more unashamed of it every day. Had even commented that they should look into getting a fume hood so he could enjoy it without having to tar up his own lungs. Peter hadn’t known what a fume hood was, and he’d been treated to a lecture.)

It was a lot harder to sneak in moments of appreciation when they didn’t have too much time together, and Peter didn’t like it. He knew Morse was terribly fond of them, even though you couldn’t always see it from beneath the quiet uneasiness that Morse sometimes slipped into.

However, there was a certain benefit to it all. Not having the chance to see each other at work all that much meant that they simply had to meet after even more often than they usually did.

So, on one perfectly ordinary Friday night, they left for Peter’s flat after six o’clock rolled around, instead of going to the pub like people usually did. Nobody was terribly suspicious of them leaving together, since it was common knowledge by now that their constant bickering had given way to an unlikely friendship.

Partnership, really. Workmates didn’t usually plan their weekends together, and they most definitely didn’t end their shared evenings tangled up in bedsheets and each other.

It wasn’t just that, though. Peter enjoyed Morse’s company more than he’d ever thought he would, and he was happy for the opportunity to feed the bastard up a bit. God knew that Morse wasn’t terribly keen on taking care of himself, so Peter needed to step in, every once in a while.

He didn’t mind all that much. Morse gave back to him, with soft words and forgiving hands in the middle of the night when Peter needed it. Besides, it _was_ nice to have someone to bring home and spend time with, a friend and a lover instead of someone who wasn’t going to stay.

He was still deep in thought when Morse spoke. They were so hungry after a long day of work - at least Peter was, and he wasn’t having it when Morse claimed he wasn’t - that Peter had pretty much kicked his shoes off and then got right to making them sandwiches. Morse had taken some time to settle down, pacing around the flat for a while before finally seeming to come to some kind of conclusion and taking off his jacket.

“Peter. I brought something”, Morse said, sitting down in the armchair to open his bag. Peter looked at him, raising an eyebrow before going back to buttering up the sandwiches.

“We’ve got everything we need, don’t we?” Peter said. “I could’ve got a nice bottle of wine if you’d told me you wanted some, with the bonus from the Pincott case.”

“That’s not what I meant”, Morse said. Peter looked back at him again, and the uncharacteristically sly smile on Morse’s face made his mouth fall open. A surprise, but _definitely_ not an unwelcome one.

“Don’t look. I’ll tell you when you can turn around”, Morse said.

“... alright”, Peter said, and went back to the sandwiches, already itching to turn back around.

He tried to listen, but Morse could be very quiet with what he was doing when he wanted to be. Peter did recognise the unmistakable sound of a belt opening - it was a very sweet sound, after all - but he had no idea what Morse was up to otherwise. He was almost finished with the food when Morse finally seemed to be satisfied.

“You can look now”, Morse said. Peter added the salad cream, quickly rinsing off his hands, and then turned around.

Morse was still sitting in the armchair. No tie, but he still had his white shirt on, and it barely reached his hips, now that it was untucked. And he couldn’t have tucked it in even if he’d wanted to, because he was only wearing loose boxer shorts with it.

Peter’s eyes trailed down, and when he caught sight of Morse’s long, oddly elegant legs, now crossed, he raised an eyebrow.

Black silk stockings, reaching up to his thighs. They fit better than Peter would’ve ever imagined - he was _pretty_ sure that those hadn’t been made with Morse’s measurements in mind - and the way Morse smiled at him made his heart flutter. Peter cleared his throat.

“Where’d you -” Peter started. Morse got up.

“I bought them”, Morse said. “Awfully expensive brand, Le Minou Noir. Would’ve been a waste to leave them unused.”

Right. The case a couple of months back, which Peter mostly remembered for the fact that he’d heard Morse read out loud the words _‘we made violent love_ ’ with no shy hesitation in his voice. It had been rather embarrassing, to sit in Thursday’s office and listen to Morse speak like that while the governor stared them down, both Morse and Thursday unaware of what was going through Peter’s mind at that moment.

Peter had been tempted to corner Morse after that, to ask him if he liked it rough, since the words seemed to roll off his lips so easily. He’d eventually decided against it - Peter might’ve been a shameless flirt, a bit tacky at times, even, but he was still smooth with how he approached people. The time hadn’t been right, not yet.

And then the worst case they’d ever dealt with had gone down. Peter had never forgot the look in Morse’s eyes when the truth came out, not pitying or looking down on him but merely _feeling for him terribly much_. It was the first time Morse had looked at him that way, his bloody heart set on making things as right as he could manage because of _him_ , Peter. In a world where it seemed that everybody was responsible for fending for themselves, it was very _different_ , and it made him feel something he hadn't initially been able to name.

Waking up with a steep hangover the next morning, only to hear what had happened with Morse and Thursday, had easily been one of the bleakest, most painful days of Peter’s life.

When Peter finally got Morse back, moments of kindness had started slipping in-between the harsh treatment he sometimes needed to give Morse to push him, to get his brain to work as fast as they needed it to.

They’d been able to consider each other friends ever since, and it hadn’t taken all that many weeks of circling around each other and Peter trying to get Morse flustered up before it had turned into more than that.

“You’re staring”, Morse remarked. Peter swallowed, and when Morse stretched his legs out very pretentiously before walking over, he let out a breathy laugh.

“Can’t help it”, Peter said, before he had a chance to think twice. _Great_ \- the smirk on Morse’s face grew even wider.

“Let me help out”, Morse said, walking past him in the suddenly too-big kitchen, not pressing up against him but simply their hips _almost_ brushing together as Morse reached to open the cabinet door.

Peter couldn’t take his eyes off Morse, and when they were waiting for the water to boil, he stepped closer and ran a hand down Morse’s thigh. Morse looked at him, brows furrowed, even though he was very much holding back a smile.

“That’s just rude of you”, Morse said, eyes flicking to Peter’s lips. Peter made sure to lick them, a little too long for it to pass as something unintended.

“I’m trying out the material”, Peter said. “Not like I’ve had the chance to paw at something like - mmph!”

Morse had gently shoved him against the kitchen counter, and the way his back hit the handle of a drawer didn’t feel particularly pleasant. Peter still didn’t take his hand off Morse’s thigh, instead grabbing his arse with the other for good measure.

“Sorry”, Morse breathed out. Peter nodded, and before he realised it, Morse was pressing his warm lips and his angular face up against his, kissing him like he’d been waiting for it all day. Probably bloody had, with the way he’d acted at work.

Morse didn’t pull away even after the kiss ended, instead resting his hands on Peter’s shoulders and pressing his forehead against his. It gave Peter the chance to take a hand off his thigh (the one on his arse remained, though) and lift it up to caress Morse’s cheek.

No new bruises in half a month or so, thank God, nor scars that weren’t recent paper cuts on his fingers. As much as Peter knew Morse loathed light duties, he felt a huge relief each time the poor sod was assigned on them - even though the desk had failed to keep Morse safe countless times in the past, at least it wasn’t him being sent _directly_ into harm’s way. It wasn’t terribly nice for either of them to have Morse be so grumpy and miserable about it, but deep down, Peter was pretty sure that the occasional breather did Morse some good, too, even if he always refused to admit it. Stubborn sod, and that was precisely why Peter liked him.

“The tea”, Morse said, even though he seemed reluctant to let go of Peter’s shoulders. “We shouldn’t boil it all to steam.”

“Right”, Peter said, leaning in to give Morse one more peck on his cheek before letting go of him.

They ate their sandwiches, which had turned out pretty fine considering how distracted Peter had been while making them. Looking at Morse’s legs without looking like he was ogling wasn’t particularly easy, but the way Peter dropped a teaspoon very accidentally and had to crouch under the table to get it back did make for a lovely view. When he got back up, Morse scoffed, but smiled anyway.

When they’d finished eating and unceremoniously dumped the few dishes they’d used in the sink ( _‘just put some water on them, Peter, they can wait’_ ), Morse took Peter’s hand and firmly led him to his own bedroom. That sort of enthusiasm wasn’t out of place at all, at least if you asked Peter, but it still made them both snicker.

Peter pushed Morse up against the headboard, and Morse managed to undo the first few buttons of his own shirt even while he was being kissed, over and over until they were both breathless. Morse’s face was very red, and so were his lips, and Peter made sure to run his fingers through his hair before letting him work his shirt open, too.

“Something you want?” Morse asked, even as Peter put a hand on his collarbone and slid his shirt off his shoulders. Peter had a fairly good idea about what _Morse_ wanted, with the way he was staring at Peter’s lips, so he leaned in to press a gentler kiss just under his jaw. He could already feel a five o’clock shadow, and somehow that made frustratingly perfect Morse even more appealing.

Morse was beautiful, and he was just as strong and stubborn when he pushed his hips up against Peter’s as he was in almost everything he did. He was a bit tensed up, like he often was after work, and Peter made a mental note of offering to help out, if it still bothered him next morning.

“Keep the stockings on, alright”, Peter said, low against Morse’s neck. “I like you looking like a pin-up boy.”

Peter laughed at how Morse’s face heated up at that, but he was silenced by yet another firm kiss, as Morse pulled his shirt off, too. It didn’t take too long before the stockings were the only thing that remained - not counting the silk, there was nothing between them, just too-cool air and the tension of promises not yet fulfilled.

Peter reached for the nightstand and opened the bottle to slick his fingers up. Morse leaned back and spread his legs without having to be told to do so, and as Peter knelt between his legs, Morse stared at him, trying to look a lot more unbothered than he actually was.

“You’ve been so restless lately”, Peter said softly, as he held on to Morse’s silk-covered thigh with one hand and started working him open with the other. “Would do you good to wind down.”

Morse clenched his fists, holding on to the sheets as Peter pushed his finger deeper, then added another one. At least he wasn’t shaking like a leaf anymore, even though his mouth was drawn to a tighter line than Peter would’ve really liked.

“Try sitting around and being useless for two weeks, and you’ll see how relaxed you end up“, Morse muttered, a tad bitter. “Not to mention being bossed around. Everybody who stops by my desk seems to think I’m some sort of secretary.”

Peter frowned, stopping the lazy circling of his fingers to stroke Morse’s thigh for a second, up and then down. That made Morse moan softly, and some of the tension in his shoulders gave in a bit, even though he tried to buck back up against Peter’s hands. Thank God.

“Morse, luv. They’re just jealous of you”, Peter said. “And I’m not saying this just to make you feel better, either. I do hear the talk that goes around. It’s not easy for the boys to appreciate someone who’s actually got brains.”

“Is it for you?” Morse asked. Peter answered by smiling, then pushing in another finger. He picked up the pace a bit, and didn’t relent until Morse let out a loud gasp.

“Nowadays? Yeah”, Peter said. “But only when it’s you. The stuck-up dons can still bugger right off.”

Morse’s mouth fell open, and Peter thought that it was a pretty good time to kiss him. He pressed his fingers deeper one more time, before patting Morse on the thigh again.

“There you go, luv”, Peter said, after easing his fingers out of Morse one by one. “You’re welcome.”

“... thanks”, Morse mumbled, eyes dark and face even redder than before.

He lifted his legs on Peter’s shoulders, the weight steady, anchoring him to the spot. It felt terribly good to see that Morse wanted it _so much_ , was aching for him so badly that he was already flushed and hard from root to tip. The silk of the stockings was heavenly sweet against Peter’s skin, and the way Morse was breathing heavily and staring at him with lust-dark eyes wasn’t exactly calming down the way his heart picked up pace.

“Peter”, Morse said. “Just do it. I can’t stay trussed up like this all night.”

“Oh, I will”, Peter said, giving in to the desperate hunger creeping into his voice. “I just… _God_. Morse, you’re beautiful.”

The half-gasp and surprised look that those words got out of Morse was enough for Peter to finally grab his thighs and push himself in. It was careful, at first, Peter savouring the sensation of sleek, firm muscle around him and the silk gliding against his shoulders as Morse trembled a bit. The poor sod was panting with the sheer effort of being underneath him, and Peter made sure to shush him, brushing a strand of hair away from his face.

When Peter was completely inside, he leaned down, to let Morse kiss him before they’d get totally lost in it all, so tightly spellbound in the pleasure that romance was easily forgotten. Peter _knew_ that it was important to Morse, being taken care of as well as getting off, and if it didn’t happen, he was always a bit blue afterwards, even though he did his best to deny it. For a man who had somewhat of a reputation of never managing to settle down with one girl, Morse sure was a hopeless romantic.

“There’s a good lad. Such a pretty sweetheart for me”, Peter said, after Morse had kissed him and put his hands in his hair. It was already messed up beyond belief, but Peter didn’t mind, since Morse always got terribly proud-flustered after the heat had cooled down and he realised what he’d done to Peter.

“Jesus, Peter”, Morse said, through his teeth, trying to drag him down with his bloody legs to have something _happen_. It wasn’t working very well, and Peter just watched, amused, as Morse struggled to come up with a way to get what he wanted.

“I know, doll”, Peter said. “I know.”

And with that, he pulled back, feeling Morse’s heartbeat against him, around him, on his hands where he was gripping Morse’s ankles. Or maybe it was Peter’s own, with the way his breath hitched at how Morse’s eyes rolled backwards as he thrusted back in, with enough force to make Morse moan.

“Wait, it’s almost - ah - could you go a bit - YES! God, Peter. _God_.”

“Yeah”, Peter breathed out. It wasn’t very coherent, but neither of them were, either, so it didn’t matter. Morse closed his eyes for a moment to draw in a long breath, but let it out in a sharp sigh as Peter shoved his hips home again.

Getting as deep and close as possible also gave Morse a chance to kiss his neck, to suck at it like an ice pop. Peter was pretty sure it was going to show tomorrow, but that only made him hold on to Morse harder - God knew he’d never been particularly shy about things he’d managed to score while shagging a pretty bird.

And Morse wasn’t a bird. It was even better, honestly, to unravel a man who was all brains and uptight prudishness at work, even while looking at Peter from under his lashes when he thought it wouldn’t look out of place. Peter always noticed it, having developed a way to recognise wandering eyes from the moment he felt them trace his skin, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. It felt so satisfying to have that man beneath him, not because Morse was desperate or lost or defeated, but because even while he kept his head high and looked at everybody down his nose, he needed Peter as much as Peter needed him.

Morse felt like heaven, with the way he’d grabbed onto Peter’s hair, spreading the pomade down his neck and shoulders as he pawed at Peter. It wasn’t as if the way Peter was sweating helped at all - what remained of the put-together, sharp look he worked on each morning was undone by the glide of skin on skin, and Morse’s full lips pressed against his jaw, and the soft moans and cries he let out.

The stockings were just a bonus. It wasn’t as if Peter didn’t like the feeling of coarse hair and lean muscle that he normally felt when he had Morse’s legs tangled up with his, but the sensation of cool, luxurious silk on his skin was very _good_.

And what mattered more was the thought behind the stockings. Morse had packed his bag this morning with the intention of ending the night like this, with Peter on top of him and making love to him until neither of them could think of anything else.

“Bloody hell, Morse”, Peter muttered. Morse shifted a bit under him, the mattress creaking, and let out a long whine.

“What is it”, Morse whimpered, pushing his hips up to meet his thrusts. “Peter. _Peter_.”

“Shh, luv”, Peter said. He pressed a soft kiss on Morse’s temple, then on the side of his nose, then just between his cheek and his ear, before drawing in a long breath and whispering in his ear.

“It’s just… I never thought you’d feel so _right_.”

Morse grabbed onto him like a drowning man, a darker flush spreading over his cheeks, and his wide blue eyes fluttered closed as he finished, clenching down around him and making a hot mess of Peter’s stomach. The sound he made was utterly beautiful, not quite a shriek but not a quiet moan either, and Peter crashed their lips together one more time as he came, too.

(Peter made a stupid jab about that secretary thing later, when he was smoking out the window in his pyjamas with Morse standing behind him, having wrapped his arms around him. _‘You’ve got the socks to match the profession’._ That had earned him a very exasperated groan and something muttered against the back of his neck that sounded quite a lot like some curse that was a _lot_ more colourful than the ones Morse usually went for.

They did still fall asleep in each other’s arms, Morse holding on to him so tight that Peter had a feeling he would’ve rather rolled over to the floor with him than let go. He liked that.)

/ / /

 

“Oi, Jakes. Got a new girl, have you?”

Peter lifted his eyes from the mailbox, cigarette still in his mouth, hands full of the day’s paper and some useless adverts.

His next-door neighbour, Martin Henwood, was standing in the doorway of his own flat in his bathrobe, unshaven and squinting at him.

Peter normally didn’t have too much trouble with his neighbours. Practically everybody in the block of flats smoked and was responsible about it, so no complaints in that regard. He paid his rent in time, and the landlord appreciated it. He knew most of them by face and at least surname, the ones written on mailboxes, and he exchanged polite greetings with people he passed in the hallway. He’d even helped Mrs Coster with her shopping bags one time, believe it or not, when it had been pouring rain outside. Held out an umbrella when she’d needed to go back to check that she hadn’t dropped her gloves on the way.

“What do you mean?” Peter asked. Henwood gave him an unimpressed look, and it took Peter a second to realise it was because of the fag. Whatever - he’d probably understood him well enough.

“You two weren’t exactly being quiet a couple nights back”, Henwood said.

 _Oh_. Peter had to take the fag out of his mouth, because the coughing fit that followed would’ve choked him to death otherwise.

If only it wasn’t so sodding hot to make Morse scream. They really ought to have been a bit more private about their business, Peter _knew_ it, but it was easy to forget in the heat of the moment.

Maybe they’d go to Morse’s flat next time they wanted to be loud. At least people were used to him blasting that god-forsaken opera music of his every night - that would probably drown everything out pretty nicely.

“Jesus, Jakes. She a chainsmoker too or what?” Henwood asked, stepping out of the doorway to check his own mailbox. “Bird’s got a low voice.”

“Uh… yeah”, Peter said. “She’s a choir girl. Sings some really low sort of… I don’t know what it’s called, but not the squeaky type. Not a soprano, I mean.”

“Right”, Henwood said. “Singer or not, could you two please keep it down a bit next time she comes over? Don’t really care to hear it, even if her pipes are better than yours.”

“Yeah”, Peter said. “Sorry.”

Henwood shrugged in the way he often did, not saying anything but accepting and acknowledging the apology. He went back to his flat, and Peter didn’t manage to put the fag back in his mouth before the door had slammed shut.

Christ. Good that on the morning after, he’d had the sense to sneak Morse out when nobody was around to snoop the hallways. Would’ve raised a lot of questions, otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Funky at Heart' by Studio Killers. The whole song is a perfect fit for Morse and Jakes in this universe and it makes my heart melt and egrfhjgdsdghHJK
> 
> The third part to this series (aka the sequel to 'Are You Married, Mr Morse?') is coming, don't worry! I just have to plan it a bit and then get writing, because it's going to be rather long. ;D
> 
> Please let me know what you thought <3


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